A/N: This takes place after The Winter Soldier but before Sam and Steve track Bucky down to Bucharest in Civil War - I'd say a few months, maybe even a year before the events of Civil War, but I'd rather be safe than sorry on the spoiler train.
In the dark apartment he rented in Bucharest, Bucky curled in on himself on his mattress in the corner of his room. As memories ghosted through his mind, his hand stilled over the notebook and pen he clutched in his grip.
He closed his eyes against the memory of thin fingers curled against his scalp, of wide eyes blinking up at him owlishly, perhaps even innocently, their nefarious edge given away only by the mischievous sparkle deep in the blues of their irises. He shook his head at the memory of a near-silent murmur of his name being pressed into his throat.
He opened his eyes at the memory of pushing the blonde - with his hair so soft and silken under his fingertips, like honey in the sunlight but white when the moon sat high in the sky and illuminated him through the window - away, his jaw clenched and refusing to meet the oh, so beautiful blue eyes for fear that his own would betray him. He turned his back on the hurt expression on his best friend's face and reached for his pants, cold and wrinkled on the ground where he kicked them off only hours before.
All he ever wanted was to protect him, and he could not do that if he was in love with him, so he squashed the feelings deep into his chest. The next time he saw Steve the chill between them was tangible, but Bucky welcomed it; better their relationship strained than have it revealed for what it was.
He left for the war as one Sergeant James Barnes and when he was taken and his brothers on the field wept for their wives and girls back home, Bucky clenched his jaw and blinked dry eyes up to the roof to thank God that Steve would never have to endure the pain he was being forced to live through.
He didn't know that back in Brooklyn, Steve was willingly enduring that very same pain to become Captain Rogers.
In 2016, Bucky's hands flew across the notebook on his thigh. Needles pierced through his memories, needles and pain and the sear of electricity through his veins before he was cold, cold, so dangerously cold and Steve was standing above him. Bucky remembered seeing his wide blue eyes and smiling because yes, he could finally sleep, could finally rest, because why else would his Steve be looking down at him in this God-forsaken lab?
He remembered Steve lifting him like he was as light as a feather, like Bucky had lifted Steve so many times before and Bucky groaned, realizing that this was real, it was real and he hurt, it was real and Steve was there, his worried eyes analyzing every potential escape route as fire swarmed around them -
His hands stilled against the paper. He shook his head. He didn't want to remember Zola, didn't want to remember Schmidt, the Red Skull. Their names burnt like acid in his mouth.
His mind returned to Steve, who hovered only a few feet from him as Medical checked him out, who let Bucky lean into his side as Steve dragged him to his tent. Who waited until the moon was high in the sky before he let Bucky pull him close with his eyes burning and chest heaving.
Bucky remembered all of his fear and pain catching up to him as he clutched Steve his first night back. He remembered how Steve melted under his touch when he pressed kisses to his skin, tasting sweat and dirt and tears, feeling those same silky strands gliding between his hardened fingers before his hands traveled lower to feel this new body, so very different from the one Bucky grew up and fell in love with.
He remembered Steve being the one to pull away first, a whisper mirroring his own words back to him. We can't, we can't, we can't, over and over in his mind.
Bucky remembered looking on at his best friend - now tall, strapping, the very image of what a man should be - with revulsion (aimed at himself, not Steve, never Steve) bubbling in his stomach with every passing day. He watched women throw themselves at him during press conferences and fought the bile that rose to the back of his throat (because Steve was his, wasn't he? Steve was his first, right? No, he always reminded himself, and he never was, never could be).
He recalled the quiet whispers the Howling Commandos thought he and Steve never heard. He remembered how tired he was, day after day; how dull he felt, even then, as exhaustion seeped into his bones, a little more each day, a little more for every person that tried to take Steve whose body fell by Bucky's bullets.
Bucky remembered more nights with Steve. Nights that never should have been, when they smiled into each other's skin and breathed in sweat and kissed away negative spaces in the dirt that seemed omnipresent on their bodies. Nights when the reality of the war terrified them out of their skulls and they were two twelve year old kids again, back in Brooklyn and huddling together for warmth and security. Nights where Steve didn't push him away. Night where he didn't push Steve away. Nights where he knew he would wake up with bruises on his hips and scratches on his back but he didn't care because what else - no, who else - did he have to live for, anyway?
Bucky pushed his pen and paper away and opened his eyes. His fingers danced over where he remembered Steve loved to hold him - right there, he thought, underneath his arm, just over the left side of his rib cage - and if he tried hard enough he could remember the sensation of his Steve's fingers drumming rhythmically, matching to the beat of his heart in a way that reminded Bucky he was still alive, still standing, still breathing.
Bucky remembered sky blue eyes and honey blonde hair shining up at him in their small, smelly one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, New York.
He wanted to remember burying his face in his best friend's hair. He wanted to remember raining kisses down on his best friend's body. He wanted to remember treating him like he was on top of the world because Steve Rogers was his world.
Instead, all he remembered was pushing him away.